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[For The Sunny South.] THE COTTON KING. BT W. P. B. I love the South,—her mountains grand— Her fertile vales and fields, Where toil may reap through all the land The stores that Nature yields; I love her fields of golden wheat— The harvests that they bring; But let me not th is praise repeat— That “Cotton is her King." Erst scarce he owned a peer's estate, Or had a baron’s fame; But prouder grown, and would be great, He takes a sovereign's name; And now with tyrant's sway he reigns, Absorbing everything, The glory of our Southland wanes With Cotton as her King. Usurper, he extends his reign O’er mountain, vale and mead; His will would banish all the grain • And leave no rival-seed; O’er all the land he thin would throw His overshadowing wing; ’Tis time to let this boaster know That Cotton is not King. The modest fruits and corn and wheat Have rights as well as he; Each one should have a princely seat, A province broad and free; They only ask a joint domain, Not grasping everything,— A field for all the golden grain, Not all for Cotton King. Not one should boast exclusive claim For all have regal birth; From God's own heav’nly throne they came To rule and bless the earth. The South is broad for each and all, And rich returns will bring For seeds that on her bosom fall Where Cotton is not King. The “Sunny South” must hear the voice, “Restore the banished grain!” Her waving fields shall then rejoice, And Plenty smile again. With Corn enthroned, and Wheat his Queen, The poor man then Bhall sing; The rich shall never mourn, I ween, When Cotton is not King. Where Cotton's royal banner waves, A thousaud wrongs appear; He makes the farmers' sons his slaves Through all the toiling year; No time for culture or for rest, For books or anything, Except the wages paying best To drudge for Cotton King. Hig flag, though snowy fair and white, Through all the South o erspread, Is but the sign of killing blight— A sheet to shroud the dead— A blight upon our fruitful soil, And death to everything That we should hope from Southern toil, Were Cotton not our King. The tyrant's reign o'er brawn and brain Throughout the land must cease, Or never shall the South regain Prosperity and peace. Restore the royal golden grain, And let tueir praises ring! And crown fair Ceres queen again, And snub the Cotton King! [Written for The Sunny South.] THE OLD RECTORY; OR, FANNY’S PROJECT. BY BEY. B. F. DUNCAN. (Continued from No. 26.) I felt happy, supremely happy, as I briskly traced my steps through the bustling streets ward home. I had a delightful consciousness at I was true to the vow made upon my knees ’ the study-door the evening previous. I felt at I could well afford to avoid, for a while at ist. any embarrassing effort that such a vow ight demand of me. But encouraged by the eat success with which I had just been re- irded, I determined that I would ascertain, thout actually committing myself to a direct plication for work, what prospect there might to obtain employment for my needle. I was ready on the main street—the business street the town. In a few moments, I would reach e store of Mrs. Waters. Mrs. Waters was also parishioner of my father. She was an English •man, and had* for several years been the incipal milliner and dress-maker of the place. II reached the store, and looked in through e closed glass doors, I saw that it was bare of irchasers, and that Mrs. Waters, with two or ree young sewing girls, were sitting in the ir around a glowing stove. I had often before id little social visits to the mistress of this es- alishment during business hours; hence a jit, apparently with social purpose, might w be made without exciting any suspicions of Y real intention. As I entered the store, Mrs. iters removed the work from her lap, and ssing behind the counter, came forward to set me. “Good morning, Miss Fanny, she said, el iding her hand across a pile of boxes; “ what n I do for you this morning ?” >«I have come to make no purchases, ” I replied. [ have been walking, and have only stopped • a few minutes to see you. You must not let i interrupt you. I see that you are quite sy, and I shall go back and do my talking die you are sewing.” , - , >« Why, this is very kind. Come back, by all M»tin I wish I could put my work aside while u are here, but we are crowded with business, s are sewing here more than half the night. Crowded with business, I thought I wish she mid ask me to help her, and that she would y me for my work. I looked first at one and an at another of the hands that were buried «i||t and lace and velvet. They ^ worked like Tried women. There was a hastiness, a care en ess about every stitch that, I knew, must ike their work less acceptable to customers m more substantial sewing and more deliber- s arrangements of the material would be. ire than once I saw Mrs. Waters’ eyes pass, as supervision, from one to the other of her as- itants; and several times she found it neces- ry to require their carelessness to be rectified, very brief inspection of this scene in the irk-room satisfied me that I could add very F ely to her reputation for taste and substan- and neat sewing, if she would only permit i to assist her. “As you are crowded with work,”I said, “you a have no objection to help, be it ever so little. , Mrs. Waters, unless you are afraid to trust or- reputation to ms, I will sew too while I am ting with you. Give me something to do. I til enjoy my visits much more if you will let i be employed.” [ am inclined to believe that she thought there s some risk in accepting my offer. She most » i tively refused for a lime while to accede to request, but I was determined that she should not refuse. I had an object in view. I j opening for my efforts to earn something. Night money for another dress. All that I ask of you the doctors of the church to the cause of religion, was more than ordinarily expert in the use of j after night as I was sewing in my room, I dwelt is that you will come and see me often. People His salary is paid when it can be collected^ but my needle, and I wished to show her that I was ; upon my course for the future, and finally are afraid of me. There is nothing dreadful we have no need of it. Hardly a day passes entirely competent. I knew, too, that I had a special fondness for such work, and my taste had often been called for in the retired departments of the preparation of female wardrobes. I wanted to show her how much ’ better I could do what some of her clumsy appren tices were doing inartistically. Of course, I carried my point, and though I saw a look almost of dismay pass over her face, I selected, when she gave me my choice of work, a piece which seemed to be giving one of her girls a great deal of trouble. In the school, the home- school, in which I had been trained, pains had formed the purpose to see what my brains and j about me. Don’t you be afraid of me.” without my seeing Aunt Nancy, and I never my pen would do for me. It was as I expected. I promised all that she asked, and when I leave her without throwing my arm around her The busy season waned with me as with Mrs. stepped into the carriage a little later to be driven , and kissing her to my heart’s content. Judy is Waters. But no sooner did I find myself at j home, I was ten dollars richer than when she | still with us. Her attentions to old Cudjoe so leisure in the evening than I took my desk from called for me that morning. won upon the old widower’s heart that he laid it its place on the table, turned over its contents, and selected such as I thought I should be willing to subject to the ordeal of examination which precedes publication. My father had for some time combined a critical exercise with my studies. I was required to read carefully an article, to analyze it, and then write out a critique upon it. I found the value of this dis- been taken to show me the unloveliness of ev- cipline now, and tried to subject my produc- erything like art, or effect, when conjoined with ; tions, without partiality, to the principles that our actions; and the influence of these lessons , decide the good or the bad in literary compo- made me feel really a little ashamed of myself sition. Nearly everything that I had ever writ- in my subsequent behavior before Mrs. Waters : ten was in the form of romance. I had a num- and her assistants. The careless manner with ' ber of short stories. And I had actually pre- which I took into my hands the complicated ; surned to prepare quite an elaborate plot, which piece of work, as though it were not more im- j I had not yet half developed, though I had writ- portant than the hemming of a pocket handker chief, was all studied. I saw the anxious milli ner casting sly glances at me, and I seized those moments to appear the more indifferent to the difficulties of my task. In a little while, I had ten twenty-five chapters. As I said just now, when ‘sewing work gave my evening hours no employment, I turned to the examination of these literary performances of mine, determined that I would break them up and remodel sen- Weeks had now passed since I had completed and laid away my “long story.” These weeks had been profitable to me. They had served, too, to render less sensitive the wounds that my disappointments had inflicted. I began to feel like renewing my efforts with the publishers. I determined, however, that as this was to be my final struggle it should be for greater things than ' I had yet aimed at. I would now try to have a book published. I tried a number of promi- : nent publishing houses. Here are some of the ; letters received from some of them. One is very : brief. The house has already more on its hands ! than it can well accomplish, and the proprietors do not feel authorized to accept more. Another ! compliments the work, but the author is not ; known in the literary world: the public taste is ! capricious; perhaps the book may not suit the ! peculiar taste of the times, then it will be a fail ure; the piiblishers decline to assume the risk. at her feet, and she is now its possessor. (THE END.) The Fat Man and the Dutch Woman. A SAILOR’S YARN. ; j . r- , . ; : - --— t— ... . ~~~ Another thinks the success of the work quite accomplished it, and said, as I handed it to Mrs. tences, and write and re-write until my judg- certfti b , lt tLe pub ii sbers must be secured A Waters, I hope it will suit you. I ment might approve them. At the risk of being lie* „ u, n „ c .r, f i .i„i_ hope it will suit you, “ You have done it beautifully,” she replied, “and so quickly. How handy you are witli your needle, Miss Fanny. If you had served at the trade, you could not be more at home. I am sure that my young friend, from whose hands you took it. thanks you with all her heart. It seemed impossible for her to understand how it ought to be done. If my workwomen had only the half of your skill and taste and quick ness, I should make my fortune in a little while.” I wondered if this were flattery, or if the words were sincere that I had just heard. 1 de termined that I would test their character before I left the store. Mrs. Waters accompanied me to the door as I rose to depart. I had bade her good-morning, and was stepping into the street when, as if the idea had just occurred to me, I recalled her. “Oh, Mrs. AA'aters! yon tell me that you have more work than you can conveniently accom plish—you have seen a specimen of my skill in your line, and have declared yourself satisfied; perhaps it will be a mutual accommodation if you will allow me to help you. I should be glad to be able to make a little money, and in this pleasant way, and will become one of your sewing girls at once if you will let me take some work home with me. If I please you, I shall be glad to sew for you as long as you will supply me.” She seemed surprised, and then after reflect ing for a few minutes, said: “ AVait a minute, if you please.” She left me, and was gone about five minutes, when she returned with a package, and placed it in my hands. Let me have this to-morrow, Miss Fanny, approve them. At tbe risk of being tiresome, I must add that the chief fault I found 1 with my stories was a taul4~iW^3tj > tev AVhen ■ writing for myself, I might fling the reins upon the neck of fancy, and give it full liberty in its 1 flights; but now that I was writing for the pub- ; lie, I knew that I must curb and check that j ! fancy. My rhetoric was painfully florid. I im agined some admirer of the chaste style of Mac- . aulay running his eye over my manuscript, and i , my cheeks glowed with shame as I read the high- j sounding phrases and waded through the lines , of modifiers that I might reach some little com- \ monplace thought. This, then, must be my j work—to tone down all this frivolous nonsense; 1 ; and to the performance of my duty I addressed i myself. The question I asked as I supervised j i each sentence was, What do I wish to express ? ! This point ascertained, I then proceeded to ex- j press it in the simplest language I could com- i mand. Then I wrote the sentence stripped of j" its fluttering and gaudy plumes. I soon had my ; I first piece pruned and ready for presentation. ] It had this merit at least there was nothing in i the way of expression that was overdrawn, or ' that I felt like being ashamed of. There it lay j I before me, copied in a round, distinct hand upon i the alternate pages of commercial note-paper, i and accurately paged. How little I imagined j | the discouragements, the heart-sickness, the al- ! I most despair of the way upon which I had now j taken my first step. Often, in after months, as | j I sat weeping over my returned manuscripts, I ; | wished that 1 had not been driven from my less j pretentious but more reliable needle, over which : I had shed no tears of bitter disappointment. ] I sent my first manuscript to the editor of our i town newspaper, with a very polite note telling finished, and yon shall be paid at my usual him of the necessity under which I labored to rates. ” Here the interview closed, and I hurried with well-filled subscription list, and a thousand dol lars as soon as the book is printed, are required. I had almost despaired, but I resolved upon one trial more. Here is the answer: “The manu script is well worth the notice of the reading public. AA'e are willing to publish upon these terms. AVe will publish the work, and share with you equally the profits, expecting that you will bear an equal share of the burden of loss, should it be a failure. ” Here was my best chance. But how could I, even witb my sanguine hopes, honestly accept the terms. What should I do ? Oh, for a friend to stand by me, at this moment, and say, I will see you safely through it. “Aunt Nancy !” I exclaimed. “ Has she not promised to help me if I needed help.” I determined that I would see her, and ask her aid. Although I had begun to feel quite at home in Aunt Nancy’s house and quite at ease in her presence, and although she had told me that there was nothing about her to be afraid of, I was conscious of some feeling of dread as I en tered her comfortable dining-room, holding my letter in my hand, on the day after its reception. I found that the best way to overcome the feel ing was to introduce at once the object of my visit, and as soon as I had extended the usual civilities, I said: “I have taken you at your word, Aunt Nancy, and have come to ask you to help me still fur ther.” “ AVhat! do you want some more money?” she asked. “ No, not exactly. I have been working very hard, but I. find that this rntjans of obtaining money is uncertain, and for some time I have been trying to establish a permanent source of revenue. It is possible to do this by my pen. I have written a book, Aunt Nancy.” The old lady removed her spectacles, wiped them hurriedly with her pocket handkerchief, : obtain compensation for my article if I eoulfi. I ■ asked him if, after examination, he deemed it light step and thankful heart to my home and i worthy of publication, that he would accept it , t them on again . and witb out saying a word, task. It is needless to recount the many little, j a nd pay me what he could afford to. £ yed me most altentivelv. Judy carried MS. and note, and returned with “The MS.,” I continued, “is now in the hands a short reply, that he would examine the article , of a publisher of New York. He has examined sent and write me more fully the next day. AVhat it, approved it, and here are the terms upon a night I spent! The next day found my hopes which he proposes to publish it.” dashed and shattered. The MS. had been ex amined. It was highly approved. The editor s pleasure at knowing that his native town was honored in the possession of a female writer who promised to shine in the literary firmament as a trifling events that made up the sum of our home- life during the next few days. Upon examining the parcel which Mrs. Waters had entrusted me with, I found that she had given me a very mod erate task — a task that I easily accomplished after I retired to my room that night, without encroaching at all upon the time that ought to be allotted to sleep. This I carried to her the next day, and received only a trifling compen- S ^°u /° r ; tv™ something, however, to be ; ^ f the first magnitude . wa s quite bey ond added to Aunt Nancy sjpft: and as she snpp.lied w fais abiiitv OI -^^StoTT: HuT^he emild u3f ac me with more work, and promised that she ; t the Story. The financial condition of the would continue to do so as long as the busy sea- - - - son lasted, I saw how the daily receipts of even these small sums would, in time, amount to something of value. I must not forget to men tion that so anxious was I to secure employment for my needle, I entrusted my secret to faithful Judy, and secured a promise from her that she would obtain from her colored acquaintances some sewing work for me. She would not listen for an instant to my proposition to make up old Cud joe’s shirts. : paper did not warrant his paying his contrib- utors. The same excuses came to me weekly i with my returned MSS. from the different pub lishers of newspapers and magazines in my own, ! and in other Southern States. I was returning 1 some visits one day. Upon the table in the par- i lor of one of the houses at which I called, I saw ; a pile of magazines. While waiting for my i friend to make her appearance, I took up one of the magazines, published in New York, and saw I handed the letter to her. She read it over two or three times. At last she said: “ Well, have you told him to publish?” “How could I?” I asked. “Suppose there should be loss. I cannot promise to secure the publishers.” _ “I see, I see,” she answered quickly; “you want me to help you. AA’hat kind of a book is it ?” “A novel,” I answered. “A novel! And you want an old woman like me, with one foot already in the grave, to help you throw into the world one of those pernicious snares! My child, if it were a religious book, I should not have a word to say; but a novel! I’d rather give you the money that it will require to publish it at once.” But don’t you see that my object will not be hope dat day may neber come when I’ll see sich as you a makin’ check shirts for Uncle Cudjoe, or any odder cullud man. Dere’s a plenty o’ odder kind o’ work dat I can git for you.” She was true to her promise, and she was as et more ? If this book be published, and if it prove a success, it will be a continual source .. x - ui “v. • j- *1 i- j ,, T ; a most encouraging proposition to writers, voung gained thus? That monev gone, where will I “No, chile, no, she indignantly replied. “I ] and old, to contribute to its pages. The stand- - if «.« wh./™mi.’i.«i «.* j* «■ ard of criticism was not unattainable, by any means, and liberal compensation was freely offered. I felt that my golden days were dawn ing. Like one who had been watching through a long and wearisome night. I seemed to be look- of income. The reputation of the author estab lished by it, the public will purchase the new for the sake of the old; and thus my noble work 0 „ will be permanently and safely endowed.” faithful to my secret as she was true. _ It is as- i ing at the dawn of the coming day. At the close “That is all true. But I am not one of those tonishing how the small amounts received from i of the visit, I borrowed the magazine from my people who are willing to do evil that good may Mrs. AAaters, and for the cutting, qr cutting friend and hastened home. Before night one of come.- And I tell you, Fanny, novels are bad and making of calico dresses, sacques, aprons, my stories, with the editor's proposition, was : things. They have done more to ruin young or for trimmiDg a bonnet, or arranging a j mailed to his address. In a little more than a people than any other of the works of the devil, party dress, from my colored patrons, quickly i week I received a reply. My story hud been ad- And the novels of the present day are all bad. accumulated some dollars to be devoted to my i mired and accepted. It would be published in I don’t read any of them. All that I know of the next number of the periodical. In a P. S. the editor informed me that remittances were not made until after publication. He hoped that holy purpose. I had not yet placed at my father's disposal the money that I had obtained from Aunt Nancy. It happened fortunately that a present of some provisions from one of his j I would favor him again with the fruits of my parishioners placed him beyond the immediate need of it. I had time, therefore, to reflect and decide upon the best plan by which it might them I learn from the Churchman, that good paper published in Hartford, Connecticut. Peo ple have been going crazy over YVilkie Collins. Why, the Churchman says that his last novel, • The New Magdalen,’is a disgraceful thing. I know a gentleman who snatched it from his daughter's hand and threw it into the fire before one comer of my writing-desk to his purse. He should be its possessor on the next Sunday, and should be entirely unconscious that the offering was from me. My father recognized the giving something, and the Churchman says that it is full of rank infidelity and everything that is bad. Young writers are more or less imitative. They may imitate without detecting the evil that lies promising genius. After waiting impatiently for several weeks, I received one day a copy of the _ _ _ magazine, in which I soon found my contribu- reach him without his suspecting its source. I i tion looking as well as good paper and printers’ her eyes. There, again, is George Eliot, who had now, in all, about twenty dollars, and my ink could make it look. Every day, after this, I wrote ‘Adam Bede.’ She must write another plan was formed ‘for its change of position from j expected a letter enclosing the promised remu- book, a novel, Middle-February, or March, or neration, but no letter came. I ventured at last to write and remind the editor of his unfulfilled part of the contract. Judge of my dismay when he replied that he would send the magazine to ^ of our earthly possessions as a pari of worship, j my address for one year, which was all the com- ! hidden in the works of these standard authors. He looked upon worship as altogether deficient ! pensation that be could afford. . j How do I know that you have not ?” without it He had therefore established in his : I believe I was now upon the point of despair, ! I wished that my aunt had shown more confi- parish the weekly offertory. The offerings of j and would have abandoned forever all hope of ' dence in my high sense of religion and morality, each Sunday in the month were appropriated earning money by my pen, had I not finished ; but I did not tell her so. When she ceased to a different and specific object. On the Sun- j my “long story,” as I called it, and had nearly j speaking, I,said: day which I had selected to transfer the first ! completed its preparation for the press. I de- “Will you let me tell you my story? I am fruits of my vow to him, the offertory would be j termined that I would finish it. that I would sure that there is nothing in it but the purest appropriated to diocesan missions. My plan i place it aside, and wait for future developments j teachings of our religion.” was this: I would inclose the amount in an en- j to guide me in regard to the final disposition of ' She consented to listen to my outline, and ex- velope with the following directions for its ap- | it. Between Judy and Mrs. AA r atersIf<ymd sew- ! pressed her approval and interest when I reached propriation: “The inclosed twenty dollars are j ing enough to yield me a little efffffiweek. My the end. , contributed to the rector, for his own use, by J relations to Aunt Nancy, too, had become some- j “Leave your letter with me,” she said. “Mr. i one of the young members of his congregation.” ! what more intimate. She astonished us all very | Shroudy is to be here at one o’clock, and I shall 1 I believe I was, for the first time in my life, glad J much one day by driving to the rectory about | instruct him to conduct the business for you.” to learn from my mother when the bright Sun- j twelve o’clock in her comfortable carriage, and j Oh ! how I longed again to throw my arms day morning came, that she would not attend j insisting upon my going to take dinner with her. j around that dear old form, and show my thank- j church that day. I could deposit my envelope I I spent some delightful hours wandering over fulness by telling her all! But the time had not in the basin entirely, unobserved. I was sitting j her old house and examining the numberless j come yet. I determined, however, that she I in the parlor reading after^ our return from j curiosities that she had been accumulating for ; should not always be in ignorance. She should I am a sailor, and when 1 go on leave I have to take a stage-coach and travel a hundred miles, part of it over one of the meanest, roughest roads in the world. It takes twenty-four miles, night and day work, enough to try the patience of a fisherman. You pitch and roll, and get bumped, till you’re so sore you feel like a big traveling boil. Then eating along the road !—it would kill Porp to make one trip. The farmers try to give you as little and mean as they can for a shilling. When I got to Lancaster I took good pains to be on hand at the stage office early, for I wanted an end seat. The middle seat has no back but a leather strap, worse than nothing would be. Y'ou keep trying to lean on it, so does the other man: and when he jolts forward it slacks up and you fall back, and when he jolts back it tautens out like a span and shoots you forward. I got there in good time, but somebody was ahead of me. I paid my passage, got my trunk put on, and jumped in, resolved to stick to my seat in spite of everything short of a woman in distress—we always have to break out for them, you know. I believe Porp there would give up a chicken-pie to save a woman from starvation. AA’iien I got in there was a Dutchman and his wife—I mean a Dutchwoman and her husband — on the back seat. By Jupiter? I found it was “me and my old man” before I got home. The next two passengers that came were very reason able sized men. One of them sat with me and the other took the strap. It was almost time to start—about one bell in the first dog-watch—and I was just feeling good that we weren't going to be crowded, when along came two great nig fat fellows, enormous chaps, carrying a trunk and blowing like—Porps. The fellow on the middle seat saw them, too. “ Jeru- salem cricket! ” said he, and he slipped over alongside me. Three on a seat is a pretty close fit: but I couldn’t help it, and said nothing. The fat men got their trunk put up, and then they surrounded the coach. One came to the starboard door, one to the larboard. By th 3 Hokum, as the bosen says, it was a tight mulch for ’em to get through the doors. They squeezed in though, and settled down surprisingly quick. All this time they hadn’t said a word, and when they got their seats they just sat still and stared at us like fishes, with never so much as a wink. The Dutchwoman and her husband had been still, too: but when we got under way she began to make up for lost time. It was “John” this and “John” that; “John, you preak dat glock” - he had a wooden clock in his lap—and “John, you growds me.” “John” one thing or another till I was sick of her. However, she quieted down after awhile and went to sleep. I wished I could sleep. I was crushed as flat as a flounder. The road for the first sixty miles was pretty level, and we didn’t bump much, but I won dered how the old lady managed so much bet ter than the rest of us. About two o’clock the moon went down, and the driver stopped to light the lamps. One of them shone into the stage a minute, and I saw how the old holy was stowed. She had got up on the seat, and braced her knees against the side of the coach, and was lying back on the old man. There he sat, one : arm around his wife, the other holding the clock, bolt upright in the corner, wide awake and the picture of misery. AA'hen the light shone in, it woke the Dutch woman up. “John,” said she, “ make dat driver take dat light out my eye.” John did’nt say a word. AA'e went ahead again directly, and I be lieve I slept a little, for the next I knew it was broad daylight and the sun was shining, and I was chilled through and so stiff you couldn't have bent me without breaking me. There sat the two fat men, staring at me like fishes still, and there was the poor Dutchman, looking fen years older, and there sat his wife, as fresh as Lake Erie. “John,” says she, “I pleeve you grack mein glock.” “Nein,” says he. “Yah, you grack dat glock mein mutter gif me fife year.” And she went on and abused John, and fussed and scolded till I felt like kicking her out. AA'iien she looked at the clock, there wasn’t anything the matter with it after all. The road was a little rough by this time, but we did pretty well. The fat men were too heavy to surge much, though the Dutchwoman began 1 to look uneasy about something. However, we did very well till we stopped and got breakfast, and set off again. Then the road was awful. The fat men commenced to bob about tremen dously. They would slip back on the seat and , squeeze the Dutchwoman and her old man, until a big jolt would come and throw them forward on us again. I saw the old woman was . getting mad, and I looked out for squalls. The fat man in front of her was round and big and full, and he took up room enough. By and by it breezed up a bit. “John ! ” she whispered, sharp and angry, “make dat man keep on he seat.” John didn’t do anything, but the fat man slipped as far forward as he could. He worked back again directly, and it began to freshen. “John, dat man on my knee.” John said nothing, but the fat fellow crowded forward again. But he couldn’t help sliding back with the motion of the stage, and it was a weighty matter for him to move himself. Then it blew a strong breeze. “John, you tell dat man keep oft' o’ me!” John didn’t answer. “John! you hear what I tell you? Not a word out of John. “John! you tell him he must move/” No answer. “A bretty sort of a husband you is! Say, you man, you move!” The fat man moved forward with a sigh. Pretty soon it was, “Mister you get off o’ my leg!” It was a moderate gale now. Pretty soon again, “Mister, you keep off o’ mt, by dam!” Every time she spoke he would slide forward, but in a minute he would slip back. “Mister, you get church that morning, when the study-door was i years, or walking backward and forward among : know that she had been the means of enabling a j ^ a P • Strong gale blowing now. rtnunAfl «nmr fnt.Vi£*t naacnil frnm D i 11 ii • xf it i i JV. 1 x: *1 J i: xi n* : i* - i “Mister, von col opened, and my father passed from Upholding in one hand the money and in the other the en velope in whieh it had been inclosed. He said nothing to me as he passed through the apart ment, but I heard him ascend the stairs and go into my mother’s room. At dinner I missed a look of care that both the dear faces had been wearing for a long time. That night at family prayers he united with the ordinary petitions, “the general thanksgiving of the church ser vice.” Thus far, I had certainly been most suc cessful. I had succeeded beyond my most san guine expectations. But my success had not deceived me. I saw plainly that it rested upon no reliable source. The current might turn any I silent, day. Mrs. AVaters continued to supply me with j “I see,” said Aunt Nancy, “that you are not work, and to pay_ me punctually. By Judy’s | willing to make a confidant of me, at least. the countless varieties of her beautiful exotics. child to relieve the sufferings of her parents, We were sitting alone after dinner when she ! and of enabling a priest of the most high God to suddenly laid her knitting in her lap and said to \ devote himself more entirely to his Master’s me: “ I am an old woman to feel curiosity, am I j I not?” She saw my embarrassment, and continued: “Don’t say that I am, unless you want to. I know that I m too old to be curious, especially about children’s secrets; but you have a secret that I am curious to find out. I do want to know what you wanted that money for in November; and what you did with it ?” I did not know how to reply, and remained Mister, you got to get off o’ my lap, you hear me?” “Mister, you hurt my leg!” “Mister, you must get out o’ my lap, by dam!” “Mister, wor j- woman no like every man set in her lap.” “Mis- I heard from my publishers in a short time. 1 ter ’ you keep out o my lap, or I stick a pin in They wrote to tell me that arrangements the ' Soaring hurricane. ... most satisfactory had been made for the publi- . I watched the fat man closely then. For awhile cation of my book. My friend and relative had ! managed to keep forward, but in five minutes assumed the entire expense of publishing, and J 1 ? lorgot and slipped bac . , b ' ' had ordered that,the profits should be entirely i hl ^. face twitched and^gotjed, and he gave a appropriated to the author. The work was now ■ squirm and a groan. in the hands of the compositors, and was rapidly progressing toward completion. Here my strug gles terminated. A capricious public smiled upon me, and I realized a large amount from the sale of several editions. As a new and pop ular author, I found no trouble in disposing of She had done it. "The fat man looked at me, and for the first and last time he spoke. “Young—man,” says he, “ would—you —j est —as—lief—change —seats —with—me?” I changed with him and we had a dead calm. Some time since at Vicksburg, a small colored . , ' , .* f . .- e v - n V ——— — . ...... uuuuio xu uufunug vu , SOME TIME S1IK C ill \lCKSUUTg, U SU1U11 CUIUICU aid, I also received employment in sewing, sqch ■ Well, 1 can t blame you or any one else for hav- j my short stories, and in arranging, upon the j bov f e q j nt0 the river and was rescued in a half- as I have already described. But Mrs. AA'aters’ , ing secrets, I suppose. I have mine; yes, plenty j most profitable terms, for the publication of my | dr owned condition. He could easilv have been busy season” would not laBt always, and then that source of relief would be cut off Natu rally, I began to wish and look for some perma nent employment I was too young to ask a position in a school—indeed, my own education was not yet completed. I could only think of writing for the press. If I could, in the first instance, make a favorable impression upon some publisher, and then upon the reading pub lic, I could see how there might be a constant of them. I keep my own counsel, if ever a woman did. But, Fanny, I like you. I believe you are a good girl. I believe you are sensible. I don’t believe you have been carried away by any visionary, impracticable, Jellaby scheme. I have been thinking that by helping you to carry out this work of yours, whatever it may be, I might be doing some good. Y'ou understand me, don’t you ? If I can help you, I am willing to. Before you go this evening, I shall give you the most profitable terms, for the publication of my subsequent works. From my parents my secret could not longer be kept; and to Aunt Nancy I hastened that she might learn from my own lips why I had toiled. There are no longer upon the faces of my dear parents looks of consuming care. We never hear the little ones complaining now of hunger. My father has grown young again. His table is full drowned condition. He could easily have been pulled out by a negro floating along in a skiff, and when some one swore at the darkey for his lethargy, he replied: “Dis yere is my last paper collar, and de boy was kicking water like an alli gator.” >' “ I never sot my hand to writin’ poetry till two years ago,” said a young ruralist, tilting back in of reviews and papers. His book-shelves are en- a grocery chair; “but the minute I took to riched every year with the new contributions of j with that Johnson girl, I couldn’t help it!’